


Fix Me, I’m Defective

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe: No Band, Angst, M/M, Patient!pete, Self harm and possibly more Fun Life-ruining Issues, Therapist!Patrick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-09-26 20:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17148224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Pete isn’t the kind of person who sees therapists, honest. If it hadn’t been for one exceptionally bad day, he wouldn’t have to be doing this. Still, he has to admit that Patrick Stump would be perfectly capable of brightening his life up. Of course, that’s hanging on if Pete is willing to let him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Therapist!Patrick au, or basically just normal peterick except Patrick has a degree and an office.

The world weighed down on Pete’s back as he dug through the pile of clothes on his floor, desperately trying to find the outfit which would make him look most presentable. He had a green polo shirt and some khakis, both things which he’d never buy, making him think they probably had come from some guy he’d slept with. Pete put them on anyway. He didn’t care anymore. His arms itched underneath the long-sleeved black shirt he wore under the polo, and his newly re-laced Converse felt tight and awkward on his feet. There was a voice in his head (not literally, but that wouldn’t have been a surprise) telling him that he didn’t have to go. No matter what the doctors had all told him, what his mother had insisted on, what his ex had screamed at him as he rushed out the door, Pete did not need therapy. Or at least, he really didn’t want it. The monster in his head was kind to him on most days, letting him go with only a few tears on his cheeks or cuts on his skin. And the days it wasn’t… Pete had always pulled through, one way or another.

It didn’t scare him anymore. When Pete had been a kid, just starting out at a middle school where everyone picked on him, and still upset about his parents’ divorce years ago, and just generally not belonging anywhere, the thing that had formed was mortifying. The first time he had come home from a day of being laughed at and pushed around and his brain had told him to take a knife to his flesh, he’d been horrified. He’d gone crying to his mother.

He regretted that now.

Sure, it had gotten him some medication and a few therapy appointments during which he’d mostly just silently sulk, but he hated that other people had to know at all. He wanted to face the creature born out of his suffering all by himself, even if he was going to lose, because Pete did not like accepting help.

The doctors from the hospital had referred him to some guy called Patrick Stump, who had a small office in town. Pete had driven up there and parked his car a block or so away, shivering as he walked to the office in his polo. It looked like the kind of place where insurance agents work; it was a tiny brick building sandwiched between a furniture store and what might have been some kind of a hipster bar, or maybe it was a hair salon. The generic display of large succulents in the window made it hard to tell. The door to his new therapist’s office had a similarly mysterious, minimalist energy. It simply read, in white text: Patrick M. Stump, PhD. Pete took a moment to laugh at the man’s initials before entering.

To Pete’s surprise, the practice was actually on the second floor of the hipster something-or-other, which seemed kind of odd, but he supposed people took whatever real estate they could get.there was a small waiting room not particularly unlike that of an insurance agent’s, complete with a small coffee table adorned with a miniature version of one of the succulents from the window downstairs. Pete didn’t even bother to look for a magazine to read (too cliché) and just focussed on the white noise emanating throughout the room. He wondered in passing if they actually played that noise for a reason, or if it was just unintentional background audio from the duct system of the building amplified by the lack of any other sound.

At long last, Pete finally heard his name called. He stood up and turned towards where the voice had come from, and was surprised to see a man about his age in a soft blue cardigan and black dress pants. For whatever reason, Pete had been expecting an old guy in a lab coat or something. When he was a kid, his therapist had been an old woman who wore brightly colored sweaters all the time, and Pete had basically figured all therapists had a similar energy. Patrick Stump was not like this. The rectangular glasses on his face made him look more inviting and friendly than imposing.

Pete stood up and walked towards him as if in a trance. Patrick brought him through a door, down a short hallway, and through the only other door in the hallway. Before Pete could wonder why that hallway was even necessary, he was being offered a chair inside Patrick’s office. The chair almost resembled a miniature couch, which almost made Pete laugh at how cliche it was. Still, he couldn’t help but feel happy that it was the cute blonde guy across from him who was about to pick his brain. Maybe not happy. More like relieved.

The smell of mint in the office was more repellant than calming, and the buzz of the elusive white noise machine was ever present in Pete’s ears. Patrick’s office was fairly minimalist: there was a window behind Pete, a computer, a potted plant which appeared to made of plastic, and a small filing drawer which likely contained info on the various crazies which set foot in Patrick’s office every day, Pete included.

“So… Pete. What brings you here today?” Patrick’s voice was gentle, but it still had an air of dominance and control to it. It reminded Pete of those videos of cult leaders.

“I don’t know,” Pete said distantly. “I just got out of the hospital, and my mother practically forced me to go.”

“Can you explain to me why you were in the hospital?”

“I’d rather not,” Pete said with a shrug. “Isn’t it in my paperwork anyway?”

“Your paperwork?” Patrick asked, cocking his head to one side. “All the information I really have on you is what your former therapist and psychiatrist gave me. So all I know is that, at least as of when you were thirteen, you were diagnosed with bipolar two, and briefly took meds until you stopped seeing anyone for it and the prescription ran out.”

“Basically.”

“But that was when you were thirteen. That was, what, ten years ago? I’m sure that wasn’t the main factor as to why you wound up in the hospital.”

“I said, I don’t want to talk about it.” Pete was doing it again-he was being cold and uncooperative to his therapist, and it wasn’t doing him any good, but he didn’t care. He was never good at the whole therapy thing. He didn’t like talking to people in general, much less with people he didn’t know and much less about stuff like this.

“Look, Pete,” Patrick sighed. “I want to help you. But you need to talk to me in order for that to happen, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Pete said, resting his head in his hands.

“We don’t have to talk about the hospital right now.”

“Okay.”

“So, is there anything in particular bothering you today?”

“Don’t you want to figure out what’s wrong with me first, doc?”

“Patrick will suffice,” Patrick laughed. “And I don’t feel like it’s necessary to try and re-evaluate your diagnosis, unless you feel like your symptoms have changed drastically.”

“I don’t think they have.”

“That’s good, at least. Good to know what we’re up against.”

“Honestly? I don’t know anything. I don’t know what I’m doing here, or how I’m going to fix anything.”

“We’ll figure it out. I promise. But first of all, is there anything in particular bugging you today? Doesn’t have to be huge, you can feel free to just complain about traffic or something.”

“Uh… I don’t think these are my clothes.”

Patrick gave him a look which simply said “go on”.

“I don’t usually wear stuff like this, but I felt like I should come to this in something other than black jeans and a hoodie, so I dug through my closet until I found this outfit. Except I don’t actually think these clothes are mine, I think a, uh… friend… left them at my house.”

“Your friend got naked at your house?”

“Weird, I know.” Pete figured probably sleeping with random guys was too heavy of a subject to bring up at the moment. Even though he was in therapy, it felt inappropriate.

“I bet it feels awkward. Wearing clothes that aren’t yours.”

“Yeah. And I usually wear eyeliner, but it doesn’t really fit with this outfit, and I wanted to make a good impression, so I went without it for today.”

“You know, Pete, I don’t care how you dress. People come to my practice in pajamas. It’s not my job to fix their sense of style.”

Pete figures that was a joke, but he didn’t laugh.

“Alright. So tell me about yourself, Pete. Do you have a job?”

“Yeah. I work at this one health grocery store by my house. It’s not really my thing, but they were hiring, so I kind of had to. I can’t live off my parents forever.”

“You do know your mother payed for this appointment, right?”

“I didn’t ask her to,” Pete mumbled. He stared down at his shoes. “I didn’t want to come here. I don’t need therapy.”

“Pete, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you by saying that.”

“No, you didn’t, it’s okay. I just… I want everyone to leave me be. And before you say it, I don’t care if that means leaving me to die.”

“Why on earth would I say that? Did someone say that to you?”

“Yeah. Every single doctor at the hospital. I would tell them all I wanted was to go home, to be left alone, to have everyone just let me be. And they all said ‘if they leave you alone, they’d be leaving you to die. Is that what you want?’”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

“It’s okay. I guess I did it to myself.”

Patrick was silent, seemingly waiting for Pete to tell the tale of how he’d wound up in the hospital in the first place. Pete decided not to give him the satisfaction. He figured the obvious was implied-he’d attempted suicide, or at least threatened it. Baby stuff, really. He figured everyone Patrick saw had done that at least once. But Pete still didn’t feel like telling the whole story. It was too personal, even for therapy. It was between him, the walls of his bedroom, and occasionally a blade of some sort.

At this point, that’s pretty much to be expected. Old habits die hard, or in Pete’s case, just keep getting worse until wearing short sleeves is basically equivalent to being naked for how indecent and unpresentable it makes him look. Pete couldn’t pretend to hate those scars, but he had to admit they could be inconvenient sometimes. After all, if you’ve been cutting yourself up since the age of twelve, it eventually becomes second nature.

Once again, this was too intimate a subject for Pete to really discuss openly with anyone.

“Pete, I asked you a question.”

Pete blushed. He’d completely tuned out, just thinking about hurting himself. Typical.

“Sorry,” Pete mumbled. “What were you saying?”

“Can you explain to me what you mean by ‘I did it to myself’?”

“Well… you know. You know what people do to wind up in that place.”

“Yes, I do. I just want to know your side of the story.”

“I was just… tired. Tired and lonely and kind of drunk, and just… tired. I was tired, and I wanted to go to sleep. Classic, really.”

Patrick paused. He looked down at the mostly empty desk, looking over at the tiny plastic succulent as if it would explain the depths of Pete’s mind to him. It didn’t, of course, but Pete for some reason decided he needed to be staring at the fake plant as well.

“Is that plant fake?” Pete asked, hoping it wouldn’t seem like he was trying to derail the conversation.

“Yeah. I’m not in here often enough to water a real plant.”

“That’s… good.”

“I guess it is.”

They were silent again for a minute, staring at the fake plant and each wondering what to say next.

“Pete… look,” Patrick said, turning to Pete and placing his hands on the table. “I can’t promise you that I can fix you. I can’t promise that I can make you perfectly emotionally stable all the time. In fact, I can pretty much promise you that I won’t be able to either of those things. But I want you to give me a chance, okay? You don’t have to tell me everything. Just give me something.”

Pete thought about it for a moment. He didn’t want to be fixed. He wasn’t even sure that he wanted to get any better. Being messed up like he was felt natural, after all, and the idea of anything else felt foreign. But he did know that his mother had payed for this appointment, and probably more, and he didn’t want to waste her money (or Patrick’s time).

“I guess… I’m lonely. And I think that’s what hurts the most,” Pete mused.

Patrick thought about that for a moment.

“Do you live alone?”

“Yeah.” Pete didn’t elaborate, though Patrick’s pause indicated that he probably should have. But, again, he didn’t want to go into detail about the guys he used to sleep with. Or how they’d left him with an empty space in his bed and an oversized apartment which he could barely pay for by himself.

“Okay,” Patrick replied. “Do you have very many friends? A… romantic partner?”

“Not really,” Pete sighed. “I mean, there are a couple people I’ve known since college who I occasionally hang out with, but… well, they’re friends, but they’re not really my best friends or anything.”

“Do you have anyone you can confide in? At all?”

“I guess not.”

“Hm. Well… you can try getting closer to the friends you have, maybe invite one of them over for dinner or something. Or maybe try going out if that’s your thing, find a club and try to meet people.”

“I’ll try.”

“I still want you to come see me though. I don’t know exactly what happened to get you into the hospital, but from what I’ve gathered, it seems like that would be a good idea.”

“As long as my mom’s still paying for it,” Pete sighed. He still didn’t think he needed to keep seeing Patrick, nor did he really want to. But if it kept everyone (possibly excluding himself) happy, he supposed he had to go through with it.

“In the meantime, I’m going to give you my number,” Patrick stated. “If there’s ever an emergency, you can call me, and I’ll see what I can do. No promises though.”

“An emergency?”

“Something like what got you in the hospital. If you’re ever having thoughts about wanting to hurt or kill yourself, you can call me and I can try to help you.”

“You really think you could talk someone down like that?”

“I’ve done it before,” Patrick said, a bit too nonchalantly for Pete’s liking. He’d never really understood those suicide hotline things; if he was dead-set on killing himself, he doubted some stranger could change his mind.

Patrick pulled a post-it note out of one of the drawers in his desk, wrote his number down on it, and handed it to Pete.

“Now, before you go,” Patrick said as Pete folded the post-it and shoved it into his pocket. “I need you to answer a few questions for me.”

“Alright.”

“Are you having any thoughts of killing yourself?”

“Uhhh… not right now?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t want to die right now, but I might later.”

“Alright, that makes sense, I guess.”

Patrick paused, looking at Pete with what could only be described as pity. He bit his lip uncomfortably and looked Pete over with that “you poor dysfunctional human being” kind of face. Pete hated that look. Everyone gave him that look.

“Okay,” Patrick said, breaking Pete’s train of thought. “Are you having any thoughts of hurting yourself?”

Pete swallowed.

“No,” he lied.

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Alright. So I’ll be seeing you again in two weeks, then. How does the twenty-first sound?”

“I guess that works,” Pete replied. “Same time?”

“Yup.”

“So that’s it?”

“Yeah. You’re free to go.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Pete said, standing up and making his way out the door.

“You’re welcome,” Patrick said with a smile. Pete decided he liked Patrick’s smile a lot more than his pity-look.

As Pete drove home, a ton of thoughts went through his head. Everything from “I should call Gabe, I haven’t talked to him in a while” to “I still don’t know whose clothes I’m wearing” to “Is it just me or is Patrick really cute?”. Pete figures he was just lonely, as usual. He craved love so badly he was willing to take it from his fucking therapist.

God dammit, he had a therapist.

That struck Pete in a weird way. He’d never been the kind of person who sees a therapist-well, in terms of being of his rocker, sure, but in terms of asking someone for help with that… it just wasn’t Pete’s thing. Pretty much his whole life he’d kept himself mostly sane, whether that meant writing shitty poetry or jerking off or drinking or cutting. It was all the same to him. And when all those things stopped working, he figured that meant it was time to go.

His parents had not agreed, hence his current situation.

Dumb luck. It was all dumb luck that Pete was even alive. Really, it was dumb bad luck, if he was being honest.

Pete shambled into his house, pulled the post-it with Patrick’s number on it out of his pocket, and stuck it to the fridge. Then he flopped down onto his couch and tried his best not to think about anything at all.

Just his normal routine, really.


	2. Chapter 2

Pete awoke covered in sweat, probably from falling asleep in the stupid polo. He sat up on the couch and peered over into the kitchen. The microwave clock read 5:35, but Pete wasn’t sure whether that was late or early. When had he gotten home, anyway? Had he slept for thirty minutes? An hour? Four hours?

This was his life now. Seeing a shrink and then falling asleep on the couch for an indeterminate amount of time.

Eventually Pete found himself scrolling through his phone contacts, trying to find someone to call who had their shit even remotely less together than he did. Of course, no such person existed (said person would probably not be coherent enough to use a cell phone), but he figured Gabe was the next best bet.

“Hey, Wentz!” Gabe exclaimed over the phone. He was his usual energetic self: the human embodiment of a highly potent energy drink probably laced with some kind of illegal drug. “What’s happening, man? I haven’t heard from you in like, two weeks, where were you?”

“I was in the hospital,” Pete said without thinking, then immediately regretted it.

“Woah, what happened to you?”

“I was, uhhh… having my penis enlarged?”

Gabe snorted. He was a good friend, Pete decided. Always down for a good dick joke, and a stark contrast to Pete’s often gloomy demeanor. Of course, there were times when that wasn’t the case, and between Pete’s mania and Gabe’s, well… being Gabe, putting the two of them in a room together could have caused a supernova ending in them either fighting to the death or fucking. Maybe both, depending on what brand of crazy Pete’s brain had decided to unleash during that particular week.

“No, but seriously,” Gabe said. “You never go outside, except to work or like… the grocery store. Did someone mug you?”

“No, dumbass. I was…” Pete tried desperately to think of a better response. He remembered what Patrick had told him, about getting closer to the friends he had, finding someone to confide in, that kind of stuff.

“You got wasted and your parents freaked out?”

“Uh… yeah.” Hey, it wasn’t too far off.

“Cool. How was, uh… rehab?”

“It wasn’t rehab.” Pete laughed nervously.

“Wow. I guess I don’t know shit, then.”

Pete almost felt bad lying upon hearing that. But then again, Gabe really didn’t know shit.

“More of a psych ward, really,” Pete explained, still shaking a bit with nerves. He really didn’t like talking about this kind of thing.

“Wow. My little man, all grown up and crazier than me.”

“Gabe… I’m older than you.” Pete didn’t pay attention to the latter half. He knew Gabe didn’t mean it in a bad way. And besides, he was right.

“You’re a hell of a lot shorter, though.”

“Hey. You know I’m sensitive about that.”

“Awwww. You want me to come over and give you a hug? Make you feel better if you’re all emo?”

“You know what? That wouldn’t suck. I’ll order a pizza.”

“Awesome. I’ll be at your place in twenty.”

Pete smiled as he hung up. It was amazing how easy it had been to do everything Patrick had asked him to (although admittedly he’d bent the rules a little): he’d called one of his old friends, invited them over for dinner, even let them in a dark secret. Sort of.

He ordered the pizza (cheese, it was the only topping he and Gabe could ever agree on) and searched his home for anything that could have indicated anything less than savoury about him. He kicked the pile of unidentified clothing into his closet, and chucked a couple of loose razor blades which had previously been taking up a position of duty on the bathroom counter into the cabinet under the sink. Pete only hoped he’d be able to find them later, whenever it came time for him to have that special little moment with himself.

Which makes it sound like masturbation.

Although, for Pete, that was a very thin line. He had yet to actually get off to cutting himself, but he figured if he just went a little longer and deeper than his conscience told him was safe, then just maybe…

He shook the thought from his head when he heard the doorbell ring. Had he really spent twenty minutes sitting on the bathroom floor thinking about how much he wanted to cut himself? Shaking his head, Pete made his way downstairs and opened the door.

“Pete? You… don’t look so good.”

That comment was jarring, coming from Gabe. He’d never taken much notice of Pete’s deteriorating mental state, and Pete liked it that way.

“Huh? I’m not wearing makeup, and this isn’t my shirt, but I don’t think I look that bad.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude. Also, that’s my shirt.”

“Oh my god. Why is your shirt in my house? Did we fuck?”

“Nah. You’d remember if we did.” Gabe smirked at him and a little growl emerged from his throat. Pete laughed in spite of himself. He’d never actually fucked Gabe (at least, that he knew of), but he didn’t doubt that it was a wild ride.

“Do you… want it back?”

“Sure. Give me all your clothes if you want.”

Pete shuddered, imagining taking off all his clothes and revealing the scarred mess that he was.

“I think I’ll keep them on, actually,” he said nervously. “Come on, shut the door, it’s cold.”

Gabe entered the house and shut the door behind him. He sauntered into Pete’s kitchen and took a seat at the kitchen table. His gaze shifted briefly to the fridge, and he noticed the Post-It with Patrick’s number on it.

“Hey, who’s this Patrick?” he asked mischievously. “You get laid and not tell me?”

“I don’t have to tell you everything about my life, Gabe,” Pete sighed, taking a seat across from Gabe.

“Is he cute?” Gabe continued, The practically demonic grin never leaving his face. “Do you let him top?”

“No! Shut up! He’s not my boyfriend, you idiot, he’s my shrink!”

“Jeez. Whatever got you in the hospital messed you up pretty bad, huh.”

“Not really. My mom made me see him.”

“Dude, you know you don’t have to do what your mom says all the time, right? Although, I gotta admit, you do look like you need therapy.”

“Wow, thanks, Gabe,” Pete grumbled.

“Seriously,” Gabe said. “I’m worried about you, dude. I know you want me to believe you just got really drunk at your family’s New Years party or something, but… I don’t know that I buy it.”

“Look, Gabe. The pizza is going to get here in like, five minutes. Until then, you can shut up about my mental health.”

“Dude… I’m sorry. I’m just really worried about you.”

“Well, don’t worry! I’m fine!”

“Pete, come on. You look like you just crawled out of a basement that you’d been living in for years. You look frail and tired and sick. Dude, what happened to you?”

“Nothing! I told you, nothing! And if you’re going to keep asking about it, you can get the fuck out of my house!”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll leave. You can stay here, all alone, and you can fucking destroy yourself however you want. Have fun, asshole.”

Gabe stood up and stormed out the door just as the pizza guy was walking up the steps. Pete rushed to the door to meet him, and he gave Pete a weird look before handing him the pizza. He shoved a twenty at him and told him to keep the change, then slammed the door and went back into the kitchen.

He set the pizza box on the table, sat down, and pulled out a slice. As he shoved half the slice into his mouth, he barely noticed the tears flowing quickly from his eyes.

God, why did he have to be such a fuckup? Gabe was a good guy, really. He didn’t mean any harm. He was only trying to care, he was trying to help, but Pete just couldn’t take it. He was so adamant about keeping his deep dark secrets locked in his mind, he was willing to force one of his only friends out of his house just to hold them in. Pete sobbed as he devoured the rest of the pizza, paying no mind to his now aching stomach and instead choosing to continue drowning his sorrows in greasy bread and cheese.

He was so gross.

It was beginning to seem like his special alone time was arriving, and soon his arms would once again spill deep red blood. The thought comforted him: it was routine, it was natural, it was practically his purpose in life to just keep on bleeding. He knew it was wrong, but it felt so right. He could never imagine living his life any other way.

Quickly he wiped the pizza grease off his hands and ran to the bathroom, thrusting open the cabinet and digging out a razor blade. It was cold and smooth in his hand, and it shimmered under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom. This was going to be the first time he’d cut since the hospital, and he was nervous. He threw off his polo and t-shirt, exposing the hundreds of old pinkish-red lines that cut across his arms. They were faded. They weren’t good enough.

His hands shook as he brought the blade to his arm. It felt so fucking good, he swore he’d almost gotten high off the pain. And the blood-god, it was beautiful. It bloomed out of his arm, tiny red orbs sitting on the cuts like water on a spiderweb. Slice after slice, he continued down his arms, destroying himself however he wanted as Gabe had told him to do. He felt good.

A single drop of blood fell onto the tile. This was the moment when Pete started to panic.

Realistically, he wasn’t bleeding very much. A cut or two had started to drip, which could usually be fixed with band-aids and hoping it stopped eventually. But this felt different. It was his first time cutting in almost two weeks, after all. Two weeks. That was the closest Pete had ever been to actually having a period where he was “clean”, making this his first real relapse.

Although, does it really count as being “clean” if every other thought running through your head is about knives in your flesh and blood dripping from your arms?

Pete didn’t even care. He’d honestly never wanted to be clean of hurting himself. His family could make him quit drinking, or smoking, or maybe even jerking off, but it would all be manageable. The thing about self harm for Pete was that it wasn’t just something he did to unwind; it was a punishment and a reward, a sickness and a cure. And god, it was sick.

A thousand thoughts flowed through his head: he had actually relapsed, he was bleeding so much, he was such a jerk he had forced Gabe out of his house just for caring about him and _oh my god there’s so much blood, that’s so much blood_. Pete collapsed on the floor, holding his bleeding arm in his hand, praying for it to just stop as it stained his hand bright red. After a few minutes of panicked crying, he briefly pulled it away, noting that the few overly deep cuts had started to bleed less (which was good) and that his palm was pretty much coated in blood. He didn’t even have the energy to wash it. Pete spent another few minutes sitting on the bathroom floor, crying to himself as he waited for his cuts to stop bleeding.

Then he had a thought. Less of a thought, really, more of a compulsion or an urge. He had to tell someone about what he’d done, and there was one person whose job basically consisted of that. Pete wondered briefly if this qualified as an emergency, but he couldn’t think of many events in his life more serious than bleeding all over himself and on the tiles of the bathroom. He stumbled into the kitchen and dialed Patrick’s number on his phone.

“Patrick?” he said shakily. “I… I did something bad.”

“What did you do?” Patrick sounded unbelievably calm, but still compassionate. He had to be a master at this kind of thing by now. He’d probably received this exact phone call a thousand times.

“I…” Pete trailed off. A sudden jolt of fear went through his mind, and he realized that maybe he really wasn’t ready to tell Patrick about how he cut himself.

“Are you thinking about hurting or killing yourself?” Patrick asked once Pete had spent a solid thirty seconds considering whether or not he should tell his deep dark secret to Patrick.

“Not at the moment,” Pete said. He wasn’t sure that it was a lie, exactly. He didn’t want to hurt or kill himself in that moment, but that was mostly due to the fact that the razor wounds on his arms were still bleeding.

“So what’s the emergency?”

“I kicked my friend out of my house. He was asking why I was in the hospital, and he kept saying how sad and messed up I looked, and I just got fed up with it. I didn’t want to talk to him about it. I didn’t want to open up. So I kicked him out.”

“And that’s it?”

“Yeah,” Pete lied. “Well, I did eat a whole pizza by myself, but that’s not an issue. I mean, it probably is, but it’s not like a recurring thing I do.”

“Pete, I’m sorry, but this really doesn’t sound like an emergency.”

“It’s not,” Pete sighed. “I’m just an asshole. I just… needed someone to tell me everything was okay or something.”

“Pete, you’re not an asshole. I’m not busy, if you want to talk…”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll listen to you if you have something you need to get off your chest.”

“Well, I mean, I just feel like a jerk. Like, I get my friend-Gabe-just cares about me, but sometimes there are things I want to keep to myself. I know you said I should open up, but it feels wrong. Like if I tell him it’s going to ruin everything.”

“I didn’t mean you have to tell everyone about everything. If you don’t feel comfortable talking to him about why you were in the hospital, I think that’s understandable. Do you think it would be helpful for you to talk to me about it?”

“Not really. I mean, what difference would it make?”

“I mean, I’m not going to force you to do anything, but getting that off your chest might make you feel better.”

“Oh.” Pete paused. “I still don’t want to talk about it though.”

“That was a bad experience for you, huh,” Patrick said sweetly.

“Yeah.” Pete felt himself tearing up. It made him feel bad, like he was weak and stupid. Was it really that big of a deal?

“I hear that,” Patrick assured him. “Hospitals are scary.”

“It wasn’t so much scary as… well… I felt guilty about it. Guilty and stupid, like it was all my fault. I just wanted to go home, but every time I cried or asked to call someone or even just complained about wanting to go home it was just more evidence to them that I wasn’t ready. That I wasn’t mentally stable enough to go home yet. But I think even the most mentally stable person alive would at least shed a few tears if they were held away from everyone and everything that made them happy.”

“I think you’re right.”

“And like… I get that maybe I’m still alive because of it, but… maybe I sort of wish I wasn’t. Not like I want to kill myself, but like, it would have been better off for me if I hadn’t survived.”

“Oh.” Pete couldn’t see Patrick’s face, but he could just _feel_ that look of pity. That look that said _oh, you poor, messed-up thing_. Pete hated it so much. He didn’t want to be pitied, he just wanted to be okay.

“Do I have to pay you for this?” Pete asked. “I mean, you kind of just gave me an impromptu therapy session.”

“Pete… you shouldn’t have to be paying people to listen to you. Again, you really do need to find someone you can talk to.”

“But what about you? Assuming I don’t have to pay for phone calls…”

“Pete, I have a job. I have other patients. I don’t want to seem rude, but you really shouldn’t be calling me unless it’s a real emergency.”

“It just… I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to talk to.”

“That’s okay, Pete. Just try and find someone else to talk to next time, okay? Do you think you could talk to your parents?”

“Oh god, I don’t think so.”

“Hmm. I guess that’s understandable. But are you sure there’s not anyone else?”

“I don’t know,” Pete replied, starting to tear up again.

Patrick was silent. He didn’t know what to say. A part of him kept saying that of course Pete wasn’t a lost cause, there’s no such thing as a lost cause. But if he truly had no one in his life he could trust…

“Alright, here’s what I want you to do. Whenever you’re feeling like this, I want you to write about it. Then you can bring whatever you’ve written to your next appointment. Of course, you can still call me if it’s an emergency, but I think it would be good for both of us if you try and get some of those thoughts on paper, okay?”

“Okay,” Pete agreed. “Thanks, Patrick.”

“You’re welcome. See you in two weeks.” Patrick hung up before Pete could say anything else. Pete almost wanted to call Patrick back to see if he could schedule his appointment to a week earlier or something. He didn’t know if he had enough paper in his house to contain the amount of bad thoughts he was bound to have before then.

Something about Patrick will amazed him. It seemed crazy how sweet Patrick was, how calm and collected and caring he could be, despite having to deal with Pete’s barely coherent insanity. The man had a gift, it seemed.

Or maybe not. Maybe Pete just wasn’t used to having someone actually listen to him without freaking out over his mental state. Of course Patrick wouldn’t freak out, he was a fucking therapist. He was used to that kind of thing.

It still felt comforting to talk to him, though. Maybe Pete was going to like seeing a therapist after all.


	3. Chapter 3

The next two weeks were weird. Maybe it was on account of Pete still feeling the aftershock from his hospital stay, or the anticipation of seeing Patrick again, or the lingering guilt of holding his dirty little secrets away from Gabe. Pete still longed for someone he could trust. Not even like Patrick, like… a romantic partner. Someone he could lie down with and whisper all his secrets to in the middle of the night. 

Pete longed for that kind of companionship. He always had, really. Despite the number of people he’d dated in the past (far too many), no pointless high school romance or temporary fuck buddy had ever provided the feeling that he really wanted. At his core, Pete was a total sap. All he really wanted in life was to snuggle up to someone and have them kiss him softly and tell him everything was going to be okay. Of course, “everything is going to be okay” is a completely ridiculous statement coming from anyone dating Pete. By the time they were going to get that close to him, they’d already know too much about him to ever dream of things being okay.

But Pete always figured that if someone truly loved him, all that wouldn’t matter to them.

The weeks went by in a crawl: they mostly consisted of Pete waking up, going to work, coming home, lying on his couch for an hour, and then maybe deciding to eat a protein bar and/or go to his bedroom before falling asleep. It was a sad life, but what else can one expect from Pete, really? At least he hadn’t cut himself.

His boss was beginning to grow wary of him: Pete still hadn’t given any further details as to what his week-long hospital stay had consisted of, he’d claimed his appointments with Patrick were just follow-up appointments for the hospital, and every day he seemed to show up with messier hair and less energy.

“Perk up, Wentz,” his boss had chirped at him on one particularly shitty day. “You can’t sell our customers the whole healthy organic lifestyle if you look like you just crawled out of a dumpster yourself.”

No one who worked at that store was obligated to actually shop there. In fact, with the money they made working there, they could probably only barely afford to. And whether or not customers actually believed the employees actually subscribed to the whole health food lifestyle was still up in the air.

As much as Pete wanted to complain that he was a cashier and he wasn’t really selling anything, he knew he was already teetering in the edge of being fired and it was best to just put on a fake smile and keep on asking customers if they’d found everything they were looking for. No one ever said no to that question, actually. Which was good, because Pete didn’t really know what he’d do if anyone did.

Between having several people ask him why all the food was so expensive (it’s organic, ma’am) and at least one person trying to use coupons from another store (sir, we don’t accept competitors’ coupons, I’m sorry), Pete was usually pretty tired by the end of the day. Or maybe it was the whole “your brain is really fucked up” thing. Either way, he didn’t usually have the energy to do anything once he got home.

Until a few days before his appointment, when his brain suddenly decided to bless him with insomnia and he was forced to figure out something to do for a half hour or so while he waited for the sleeping pills to kick in. He wound up lying on his bedroom floor, in some kind of half-awake, half-asleep state that usually came with trying to overcome said insomnia, as he scrolled through his phone contacts looking for someone to talk to. Really, there were only about five people on the list that he still actually spoke with, two of which were his parents, so at the very least that said a lot about his social abilities. He still hadn’t actually added Patrick to that list, specifically due to situations like this where he might have been tempted to call him and say something he’d regret later.

After going up and down the list a few times, Pete decided to call Gabe. May as well, right? He probably wasn’t awake, and if for some reason he was, Pete could just hang up before he started guilt-crying over the whole pizza incident.

Three buzzes passed, which usually sent terror through Pete but now served as a relief. The one time he _didn’t_ want someone to pick up, he actually wasn’t going to pick up. Imagine that.

“Pete? What time is it?”

Pete sighed. He tried to turn away from the phone so Gabe wouldn’t hear it, but it was probably no use. Whatever.

“Dude, it’s so late. Why are you calling me?”

“I don’t know. Why are you up?”

“Why are _you_ up?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“Of course.”

Pete sighed again. Why was he hiding everything from Gabe, exactly? He already knew how fucked up Pete was; he’d all but seen him naked in the few years they’d known each other, so what did Pete have to hide?

A lot. The question was really how much Pete cared about hiding it.

“I… wanted to apologize for the other day,” Pete said.

“For making me leave your house? Dude, it’s fine. You payed for that whole pizza anyway.”

“No, that’s not why. You were worried about me, and I was lying to you a little, or maybe a lot, I don’t even know. I was scared, and I’m sorry.”

“Pete…”

“Do you really want to know why I was in the hospital?”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I want to now. I really do. I need to tell someone.”

“Alright, little guy. Go ahead.”

Pete took a deep breath. Nerves shot through his body, so much so that he felt like throwing up. Coming out to his parents had almost been less nerve racking.

Almost. Pete could handle this, no problem.

“I tried to kill myself.”

“You… what?”

“Come on, Gabe, I know you’re not stupid.”

“No, I’m not. I… I didn’t expect that.”

“Really?”

“Well, I mean, I knew you had something going on. Since college, really. I think everyone knew. But I never thought it was like… that bad. Fuck, man. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s… it’s cool. I’m better now. Better than I was when I did it, at least.”

“But like… why? How? When? I mean, you don’t have to-“

“I don’t know, okay? It was the day after new year’s, and I was just like ‘I don’t want to live another year’ and so I just… decided not to. I went to my parents’ bathroom and I slit my wrists. I totally fucked up my hands pulling apart a razor, but I didn’t care. The only reason I didn’t die was probably down to my mom freaking out at how long I’d been in the bathroom and unlocking the door when I didn’t respond to her saying something.”

“Did you get to ride in an ambulance, at least?”

“I don’t remember it if I did. I was out the whole time while they were stitching me up and probably giving me more blood and stuff. I missed the fun part.” Pete laughed. Gabe also laughed, but more awkwardly. Pete didn’t blame him.

“Then it was off to… crazy town?”

“Yup. Crazy town. I can say that, I’ve been there.”

“But I can’t?”

“Eh. Go ahead. It’s pretty accurate, if I’m being honest.”

“So what was it like? Weird ghost prison?”

“Think more like a commune mixed with a medium security prison. I had to sleep on this hard mattress next to this scary guy. I mean, not in the same bed. Like, in the same room. But everyone there was kind of terrifying. The staff especially. I saw a guy get tranquilized by them.

“Tranquilized? Like, they shot him with a dart gun?”

“I mean, no. They don’t like it when you call it a tranquilizer, but it’s pretty much the same thing. They pinned him down and stabbed him with a couple syringes and he went all limp and weird.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“So that’s why you went to therapy.”

“Well, my mom made me. I wasn’t lying about that.”

“Is your therapist good?”

“I mean, so far he’s been alright. I don’t really know yet. I’m meeting with him again on Monday, I guess I’ll figure it out then.”

“Good luck, dude. I hope you get better.”

“Yeah. Thanks. See you later, Gabe.” Pete smiled as Gabe said goodbye and hung up. He knew Gabe was being genuine, and that he really did want the best for him.

Pete didn’t really feel like getting better though. He still kept his cuts and scars (apart from the big ones on his wrists) as special secrets hidden from almost everyone. In fact, he was pretty sure his parents didn’t even know he’d been self harming other than when he was a little kid. Oddly enough, that made Pete feel good. He was fiendish and clever enough to keep a dirty little secret from even the people he loved the most.

His meeting with Patrick suddenly seemed to come all too quickly.

As Pete sat in the waiting room playing with the cuffs of his sleeves and focusing on the white noise (because it was the only sound), he grew more and more worried. The dark secrets in his mind swelled. His heart beat so hard he could almost hear it over the buzz of the white noise machine. He could feel his pulse in his wrists, a feeling which he’d grown to despise since his brief stint during which his wrists had been covered in bandages and stitches and all he could ever feel in them was that pulse and just a ghost of touch. It was worse than numb.

“Pete?”

Pete’s heart was racing at a million miles an hour. He wasn’t scared, was he? He wanted to like Patrick, he really did. It was just so hard to keep secrets while staring into those soft, caring eyes. Maybe that was why Patrick became a therapist. He was just so goddamn charismatic, Pete was sure someone would confess murder to him if he asked them nicely.

Pete faced Patrick as he sat on the almost-couch. He tried to focus on something else-the filing cabinets, the fake plant, literally anything than Patrick’s intoxicating eyes.

Intoxicating eyes. God dammit. Pete was such a hopeless romantic, he could even find parts of his therapist to fall in love with. But he couldn’t fall in love with his therapist. That’d be ridiculous.

“So, Pete,” Patrick said, snapping Pete out of his weird almost-daydream. “How was the rest of your week? Better or worse than when you called me after our last appointment?”

“Uh… better, I think?” Pete replied, still feeling kind of out of it. “I actually wound up talking to the guy I was telling you about about my trip to the hospital.”

“So you told him what happened to make you have to go there?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d he take it?”

“He was… surprised. I think he took it pretty well though. I mean, he seemed cool with it.”

“Cool… how?”

“Like, he was surprised, but he wasn’t super surprised. I feel like everyone in my life kind of knows that I’m… messed up in the head. So me trying to off myself kind of fits into that narrative.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Patrick agreed. “Suicidal ideation is pretty common among people with depressive symptoms.”

“I know.”

“How have you been coping since you called me? What’s your mood been like?”

“Uh.” Pete had never been good at rating how he was feeling. He wasn’t even sure if he knew how he was feeling half the time, so he definitely wasn’t going to be able to effectively convey it to Patrick in just a few words.

“Happy? Sad? Neither?”

“I think I’ve been… more sad than happy. Probably not depressed though.”

“You know, being sad most of the time is probably a good indication that you’re depressed.”

“It’s not like… really bad though. I can manage. I can go about my day and go to work and stuff.”

“Have you been doing anything that you enjoy? Any hobbies? Talking with friends about less serious subjects?”

“I don’t really have any hobbies. Or friends. I mean, Gabe exists, but the last time I talked to him was when I was telling him about what happened to me.”

“Well, I’m sure you have a hobby of some kind. What do you enjoy doing?”

What did Pete enjoy doing? He tried to think about what he did in his free time. It was pretty drab, really. He ate, he slept, he jerked off. He cut himself. Occasionally he lied in bed listening to crappy punk music. That was pretty much it.

“I… like music?” he said eventually.

“Do you play an instrument?”

“I have an electric bass from when I tried to learn it as a kid. I can’t really play it though. I haven’t even tried in years.”

“I think that’s something you should try to pick up again. It seems like a healthy use of your time. You might enjoy it, or even consider trying to find some friends to start a band with. I think it’d be good for you.”

“I don’t really want to pay for lessons.”

“You don’t have to. I’m sure there are plenty of tutorials online you could look up. Try and teach yourself. Again, I think that’d be a good way for you to spend your time.”

“Okay.”

“So what have you been up to, exactly?”

“Uh… I went to work. I made dinner most days. I slept a lot. That’s about it.”

“That doesn’t really sound… enjoyable. Do you think you’d be happier if you tried to find something to do?”

“I don’t know. I think the less time I spend awake, the less time I have to be sad.”

“You really should try to find something to do that distracts your brain.”

“My brain doesn’t want to be distracted. It has an agenda.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Pete was beginning to realize how insane he sounded.

“Do you think… your brain wants to hurt you?” Patrick asked. His soft and caring demeanor hadn’t shifted, but the tone of his voice was beginning to sound just slightly worried.

“Uh… I guess so.” Pete didn’t know where Patrick was leading him, but he was going to at least try not to lie.

“Do you ever let it?”

“How?”

“Do you let it hurt you? Have you ever physically hurt yourself, or let yourself believe something that you knew was wrong and hurtful to you?”

“Hasn’t everyone?”

“Hasn’t everyone what?”

“Let themselves believe that they weren’t good enough. I feel like that’s part of, y’know. Growing up and stuff.”

“It can be. You can start to lose self confidence when you’re a teenager. But once you get older, it usually goes away. I get the sense it didn’t go away for you?”

“Well… that’s not quite it. I mean, it’s not that I don’t think I’m good enough. It’s that sometimes I think I need to be punished for something.”

“What do you think you need to be punished for?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes it’s blowing up at someone, or it’s getting reprimanded at work, or just… doing something stupid. But sometimes I don’t know at all. Sometimes it just feels like whatever I’m doing is wrong in some way.”

“Do you actually punish yourself?”

“I mean… no,” Pete lied. He was going to keep this up. He had to lie. The little cuts on his arms had to remain a secret from everyone but him, they just had to. It was becoming a game.

“Are you sure? You know self harm isn’t just limited to cuts, it can also include depriving yourself of things you enjoy, which you seem to be doing.”

“No, that’s not meant as punishment. That’s just… what I feel like doing. I just don’t feel like doing anything. I’m just always drained when I get home from work. And like I said, the less time I spend awake and alone with my thoughts, the better.”

“You’re afraid you’ll wind up giving into your thoughts if you stay awake too long.”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Would you like to learn some thought exercises to help you ignore thoughts like that?”

“I mean… I don’t know if it would help. I can’t really ignore that, even when I try.” Pete was a cynical person through and through. He was never inclined to believe that any kind of mental exercises would ever help him. To him, it always just felt like breaking your leg and then trying to fix it by going for a run. It might be nice for someone whose leg (or in this case, brain) isn’t broken, but Pete was far beyond that point.

“I don’t think there’s any drawback to at least giving it a shot, right?” Patrick suggested.

“Alright, I guess.”

Patrick opened one of filing drawers and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. He placed them on the table in front of Pete.

“I want you to write down some of the negative thoughts you tend to have regularly. Then I want you to write at least one contradiction for each of the negative thoughts.”

“What if I can’t think of a contradiction?”

“Then I’ll try and help.”

Pete sat there staring at the blank piece of paper for far too long. There were so many awful thoughts that swam in his mind, but he had no idea how to put them into words. Eventually he managed to get a few down.

_No one loves me and no one should love me._

_Everything I do is wrong and makes people mad._

_I’m hurting my family by being so sad all the time._

_I’ll never accomplish anything because I’m probably going to decide to kill myself soon and I won’t be alive much longer._

Patrick was giving him that pity look again. Pete felt like bashing his head into the wall. He hated that he had to be so fucked up. He really did. But those awful thoughts kept him warm at night. And a part of him wanted to keep them, to hold them close and protect them.

“Alright,” Patrick said. “Can you think of any contradictions to any of them?”

“Uh… for the first one, I guess my parents love me. And they have to, because I’m their kid and all.”

“I don’t think it’s that they have to. I think they just love you, Pete. Why don’t you just write that first part down?”

Pete did so, and then began tapping the pen on the paper impatiently as he tried to think of something else to write. Positive thinking was really hard, especially while under pressure.”

“For the second one, I think I can think of at least a few contradictions,” Patrick offered.

“Like?” Pete asked. He felt useless.

“You apologized to your friend and told him about what you did. You keep coming to your appointments with me. I think you do good things all the time, Pete.”

“You don’t know me,” Pete scoffed.

“I don’t need to know you very well. The thing is, most normal people do more good things than bad things.”

“I’m not a normal person.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Patrick sighed. “I mean, you’re not a politician or a serial killer or anything, at least to my knowledge. You have a job, you have parents who love you, you have at least one friend. I’d say in most people’s books, that qualifies as normal.”

“Yeah, until they find out I’m a mental disaster.”

“But as long as you have the coping skills in order to function well, that’s not an issue! I think that my number one goal for you is for you to believe that it’s possible to heal. To improve. Do you think you can try that?”

“I mean, I guess?” Pete replied. Patrick was divulging into motivational speech, and Pete wasn’t super into it. “What about the other two things on the list though?”

“I want you to try and come up with those for yourself.”

Pete couldn’t help but wonder if that was a challenge to him, or just Patrick realizing he wasn’t going to be able to help him on this front. Pete thought about them for a while, trying to figure out something to say. He stared at the ink on the paper as if it would magically give him an answer, but it never did.

“What if they’re true?”

“I really don’t think they are,” Patrick assured him.

“Why?”

“You know your family loves you. If you’re sad, that doesn’t hurt them. And I know it seems like you’re not long for this world, but just trust me. You’re young. You can get better. And when you do, you’re going to be able to do great things, alright?”

“How can you promise that?”

“I can’t. But I really think it’s possible. Start playing the bass again, try and go out and find more friends, maybe even try your hand at painting or something. You’ll get there.”

“But that’s all just distractions. I’ll always be sad underneath it all.”

“Maybe it seems that way. But just try it. Most of the time, the sadness starts to go away if you start doing things to push it down. Of course, if you’re ever feeling sad, you can talk to someone. I know your friend Gabe seems like a good listener, and if there’s an emergency, you can always call me.”

“Okay. I’ll try. For you.”

“Not for me, Pete. For you.”

“What if it helps to think of it as trying for you?”

“I don’t know why it would, but… I suppose that’s fine.”

“Alright. So I’ll see you again…”

“Same time next week?”

“Works for me.”

“Good. See you then, Pete. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Pete blushed.

As he walked out of Patrick’s office, he felt a little more confident. He really couldn’t care less about making himself happy. Never had, probably never would. But if him getting better would make Patrick happy, then he was sure as hell going to try.


End file.
